


Fault

by entropic



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: F/M, This is pure self-indulgent smut, dont read too far into it, set vaguely within the 5 year gap. valkyrie is in her 20s because canon means nothing to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25059358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entropic/pseuds/entropic
Summary: "you’re not the reason I'm broken."
Relationships: Valkyrie Cain/Skulduggery Pleasant
Comments: 27
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oh i have a problem

He was no stranger to pain. He had hurt before, in every possible sense of the word. How silly that this would be the thing to break him. He was certainly well acquainted with loss. He had lost friends, lovers, his child. He had lost himself. This was a new kind of pain, a new kind of loss. When she told him that she was leaving, he ached. His body had been hollow for a long time, but her absence left him utterly empty. He was less than a shell. He was a concept. 

He drifted through his days, each of them as meaningless as its predecessor. He filled them with whatever work China threw at him. Anything to pass the time. To keep his mind off of it.

He sat alone in a booth at the back of a filthy bar in Roarhaven, an alarming amount of paperwork spread on the table before him. He didn’t look at it. He sat still, his eye sockets focused on the empty seat opposite. He wasn’t sure why he still went to bars. It wasn’t as if he could drink anymore. It was a habit he had yet to abandon since his death. Sometimes he just wanted to be around it. The smell of booze, the quiet conversation. The occasional drunken fight. The vulnerability of it all. He wished he could still drink. A whiskey would be good right about now. He missed the clink of the ice cube in the glass, the thick burn as it traveled down his throat. The flavor lingering on his lips. He missed having lips. He wanted to go to the bartender, to order something from the top shelf. Something expensive. He wanted to relish in it. Some small pleasure amidst the torment of existence. Though at this point he would have been happy to drink the cheapest swill available if it meant he could lower the volume on his mind. 

It was good, he decided. The fact that nearly every possible source of pleasure had been all but stripped from him. Drink, food, sex, all of the little joys that came with being human. Could he even classify himself as human anymore? He had been once, of course. But he wasn’t sure that he still counted. He was thought made corporeal. Nothing but bone in a well fitting suit. He didn’t deserve pleasure. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried, though. Long ago. The first two were entirely off the table, of course, but he had certainly engaged in his fair share of trysts. The sheer amount of willing partners had always surprised him. Beyond the initial morbid curiosity, why would someone ever want him? He had enjoyed the experiences for what they were, fleeting and meaningless, but it wasn’t anything like when he was alive. He could still give. He enjoyed giving. But there wasn’t much else. Beyond the initial thrill, he was always left feeling dirty. He was a bad man. He defiled with his very touch. It was wrong of him to allow his poison to seep into the flesh of others.

He was unworthy of pleasure. He knew that he was. That was the problem, though. Valkyrie had always made him feel good. He had enjoyed being around her. The jokes, the conversation, the way she understood him like no one else ever had. It had changed at some point. The feeling he got when they were together. It was gradual, something that he wasn’t conscious of until he was in far too deep to drag himself away. He started noticing things about her. Small things that he tried very hard not to think about. The way her dark eyes looked like honey in the sunlight. The way her black hair fell gently around her toned shoulders. When she fell asleep beside him in the Bentley, hours deep in a stakeout, and all of the worry and pain and fear seemed to melt from her face. Her mouth hanging slightly open, a strand of hair draped across her cheekbone. She was peaceful. Beautiful. 

He had wanted to reach over, to tuck the hair behind her ear and run his fingers down her jaw. That thought had made him physically recoil in disgust. He could never do that to her. He was a despicable thing. He was pathetic. Evil. All of the turmoil that Valkyrie wore on her face was because of him. No amount of repentance could ever make him worthy of touching her. He would hug her, but only when she initiated. He told himself that that one thing was alright, it was something she needed. It helped her feel better. He would never allow himself to engage in anything more intimate. He had already learned his lesson in that regard. Before he had thrown Ravel into the accelerator, he had kissed her on the cheek. He hated himself for it. He hadn’t been sure that the plan would work, and he was fully prepared to throw himself in instead if it had failed. More than prepared. He was expecting it. He selfishly allowed himself to kiss her because he was fairly certain he would never have another opportunity.

When it did work, and he realized that he wouldn’t have to sacrifice himself for her, the full weight of his stupidity hit him like a train. He corrupted her with his filth. She had left for America soon after that. Consciously he knew that the kiss wasn’t the catalyst in her decision to leave. The voice in his head, the one that constantly reminded him of all of the atrocities he was responsible for, the pain he had caused, begged to differ. Maybe the kiss _had_ been part of it. Maybe it made her realize that her partner was a disgusting old fool. She had told him that she loved him, but he was sure that she hadn’t meant it like _that_. 

God, he was such a fucking narcissist. How could he make this about him? She left because she needed to get away. Not just from him, but from all of it. This life. The life that he had dragged her into. Ultimately, he supposed, it _was_ his fault that she left, even if the kiss wasn’t the deciding factor. He had done this to her. All of the death, the agony, she never would have been subjected to it if it weren’t for him. He could have left her alone, all those years ago. She wanted to join him, threatening the safety of his hat if he didn’t acquiesce. He should have been firm. Abandoned her with that hat, and left her to her life. It wasn’t as if it was his only hat. It would have been a small price to pay, even if it was one of his better ones. She could have been normal. She could have been happy. 

He couldn’t have saved the world without her though. All of the crises they had averted together, he couldn’t have dealt with alone. She was brilliant. Strong, resourceful, breathtaking. She was a fighter. She always had been. If she had never accompanied him that first time, the world would have been reduced to rubble by now. Several times over. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t still hate himself for it. 

He hated himself for the way she had made him feel. How did she make a dead man feel so warm? It was intoxicating. Sometimes, when she looked at him, he swore he could feel his heart leap. That was ridiculous. He didn’t have a heart. Maybe he never had. 

She didn’t speak to him much anymore. She had contacted him sporadically for the first couple of years, calling to check in, but she sounded different. That spark in her was gone. She was as empty as him. And it was his fault. He was horrible. He was a self-absorbed, pathetic, miserable, useless sack of shit and --

His phone rang sharply, pulling him from his self-flagellation. He slid his leather glove back onto his skeletal hand to swipe at the touch screen. 

“Hi, Skul,” her voice was soft, but it cut through him like a knife. He couldn’t remember the last time she had called him. It had been months. He tried to ignore the heavy ache that began to take up residence in his chest cavity.

“Valkyrie,” he choked out, still dazed. He shook his head, trying to kick himself back into gear.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” she took in a breath, audible over the phone, “I’ve missed you.”

“It’s-” he cleared the throat that was no longer there, “it’s been a while. I thought that you might be bleeding out in a ditch.”

God, what the hell was that? That wasn’t funny. Had he forgotten how to banter? Had his sense of humor stowed away in her suitcase, leaving him to fend for himself? 

She gave a little chuckle, but he was sure that it was more out of pity than anything. 

“Well, I am, but I figured that I should ring you before my inevitable demise. I’ve always wanted to die in a ditch, you know,” he could hear a smile in her voice, though it still lacked the edge it once had, “after all the years that we’ve spent battling monsters and Gods, dying in a ditch would be a hilariously anticlimactic way to go out.”

“That it would,” Skulduggery said. He wondered if the part of his mind responsible for speech was melting out of his skull. 

“You’re talkative this evening.” 

“That I am.” he cleared his throat again. Useless. “I’m sorry. I was just in the middle of some paperwork.” 

“Oh, God, I had no idea. I’ll let you go if you’re busy.” 

“No! It’s okay,” he said, fully aware of how stupidly eager his voice sounded. He paused, trying to reign himself in, “I was just finishing up.”

“Ah.”

“You’re quite talkative too, I see.”

He heard her take another breath. The exhale sounded shaky. 

“I don’t know. It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken and…” she trailed off.

“Mm?” 

“I guess I’ve sort of forgotten how to talk to you. Is that stupid?”

“Terribly. To be quite honest, I’m dumbfounded by the sheer bêtise. Insulted, even,” he swept his scattered papers into a neat pile, the phone pressed between his skull and the shoulder of his structurally reinforced suit.

“Betise?”

Standing, he walked towards the bar exit, papers clutched beneath his arm. He adjusted the phone and spoke, “ _bêtise_. French for stupidity,” he directed a slight nod towards the bartender as he left. 

“Ah. Well, in that case, I learned from the best.”

“How kind of you to notice, Valkyrie. I am the best.”

“You’re the best at being an absolute goon.” 

God, he had missed her. He missed this. The guilt was rearing its ugly head inside of him, but he tried to stifle it. She was all that mattered right now. He could abuse himself later.

“You know-” he grunted, unlocking the Bentley and slipping gracefully through the driver side door, placing his work on the passenger seat. “I think I may be a bit out of practice as well. My banter skills have been tragically underutilized as of late. You’re the only person capable of matching my unbelievable wit.” he was trying, a little desperately, to sound cocky. To sound normal. He didn’t feel normal, but he couldn’t let her catch on. 

“You’re definitely still at least a half-wit.” She hesitated. “Hold on, was there a compliment hidden in there? Somewhere in the middle of you jerking yourself off?”

“... Jerking myself off?”

“Uh- I suppose I’ve been watching too much American TV. Stroking your own ego, I mean.” She let out a weak laugh. “We both know you aren’t capable of that” 

The seconds that ticked by while he tried to formulate a response were agonizing. 

“Capable of what, exactly?” he asked. He knew the answer, but words eluded him.

“I- um- you know. The uh… Never mind.” she stuttered, sounding genuinely embarrassed “Wow, I’ve just made this incredibly weird, haven’t I? “

“Only a bit”

“You’re so helpful.”

“I’m not the one making masturbation jokes, Valkyrie. You’re going to have to climb out of this proverbial hole all by yourself,” he said it as if he meant it, but threw her a lifeline anyway. This wasn’t exactly a topic he was comfortable discussing. Skulduggery cleared his throat again, “so, why do you make it sound as if I’ve never complimented you before?”

He knew that he had. He had actively tried to quell it, in fact. If he were to externalize every complimentary thought he had towards her, he would never stop talking. He stared blankly at the pile of papers in the seat beside him. Valkyrie’s seat. It was still adjusted perfectly to her preference. He couldn’t bring himself to change it, even if he had needed to. Anyone else who rode with him would just have to live with it. It belonged to her. It always would. 

God, he was a fool. 

“Well, you have, but not terribly often.”

“Hmm” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Would you like for me to compliment you more?” These were dangerous waters he was treading, and he knew it. But he couldn’t stop himself.

“Only if you mean them.” she said quietly. Her voice sounded… nervous? Insecure? God, how could someone like her be insecure?

“Valkyrie,” he said her name a little breathlessly, though he had no need for breath. It surprised him. “You are incredibly witty. You’re funnier than I am, as much as I hate to admit it. And you’re definitely more attractive. Ludicrously attractive.” the words tore through his teeth before he could stop them. Fuck, had he really said that? 

The line was silent on her end. He immediately regretted it. He wished he could grab the words from the phone and stuff them back in his skull. How could he have allowed himself to say that to her? He was sure she was going to hang up. He had made a terrible mistake. He could have just told her that she was funny. That would have been fine. Innocent, and enough to boost her ego a bit. But he had gone and ruined it.

He heard her exhale softly, barely perceptible through the speaker.

“You think I’m attractive?” 

He thought about trying to backpedal. Try to take it back, play it off like it was all just a big joke. He didn’t want to. 

“Yes.” he said simply, unable to form a more cohesive thought.

“I definitely disagree,” she paused again. “Not about my being attractive, I’m quite the catch actually. But I disagree that I’m more attractive than you. I mean, have you heard yourself speak? Christ. And those suits... ” her voice trailed off.

He was frozen. He wasn’t sure what he had expected her to say. Call him a creep maybe? Or simply hang up and block his number? Whatever he had expected, it certainly hadn’t prepared him for this. His mind was utterly blank.

“... Skulduggery?” she asked softly, her voice tinged with anxiety, and he realized that he had been sitting in silence for over a minute. He stared at the steering wheel in front of him. His mind cycled rapidly through dozens of possible responses, each with their own merit. Finally, he settled on one. 

“Mm?” he managed. Pathetic. He could talk a killer’s ear off in the middle of an apocalypse-level catastrophe, but he couldn’t speak to the one woman he trusted more than anyone else.

“So, uh, any thoughts on that?” her voice faltered. He felt terribly guilty. He was a coward, and his shortcomings were hurting her.

“I… didn’t realize that you felt that way,” he spoke quietly, trying to keep his voice even. 

She hesitated, palpable tension filling the line between them, “have you seriously never noticed? I followed you around like a lost puppy for years. Even Marr saw it. I’m not exactly known for my subtlety.” 

“I suppose not.”

“You suppose not, what?” 

“I’m not sure,” was all he could choke out.

“Jesus, Skulduggery, did I break you? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to- fuck, do you want to pretend that this never happened? I just -”

“No.” he cut her off more forcefully than he intended to. He remained silent for another moment, trying to collect himself, “I’m sorry. Valkyrie, I’m so sorry. I-” he stopped again, “you’re not the reason I’m broken.”

She didn’t say anything. He continued.

“You are the most breathtakingly strong, beautiful, capable woman I’ve encountered in my 400 plus years of existence. To be quite honest, I don’t deserve your affection. In any capacity.”

“I want to see you. Right now,” she said suddenly. It was such a complete non-sequitur that he thought he hallucinated it. Maybe he had gone completely mad. That would certainly explain his behavior as of late.

“What?”

Valkyrie sucked in a shaky breath, “that was… well, that was part of the reason I called. I’m back in Ireland.”

He said nothing. His mind was hollow. If he allowed himself to speak again he would have just kept repeating that one word question. He couldn’t even process what she was saying.

She must have realized that he wasn’t capable of responding, so she continued.

“I.. I haven’t told anyone else yet. You’re the only one who knows. I couldn’t even bring myself to go back to Gordon’s- Grimwood house. I’m in a shitty motel. I can send you the address if-”

“Yes,” he blurted abruptly. He hadn’t meant to cut her off, but his consciousness had finally caught up and the thoughts hit him hard, spilling out in a wave before he could reign them back in. If he still had a pulse it would have been thrumming fiercely against his skin. 

“I’ll text you,” she said.

He jammed the keys into the ignition and the Bentley roared to life, “I’ll be there soon.”


	2. Chapter 2

‘Shitty’, as it turned out, had greatly oversold the condition of this motel. Skulduggery sat in the Bentley, idling in the far corner of the dilapidated car park, framed by the woods. It was nearly empty. A tractor that had clearly seen better days sat near the center, caked in a thick coat of dried mud. Further down, a shiny black sedan. Valkyrie’s rental, he figured. He hoped, at least, that she hadn’t driven from the airport in the tractor. A single street lamp flickered near the lot’s entrance, bathing the scene in a sickly yellow and reflected across small puddles left by recent rain. 

He glanced at himself in the rear view. The light danced across the hollows of his skull, casting thick shadows over his eye sockets and below his cheek bones. He pulled his hat down further.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting here. The unsent text message, _‘I’m outside’_ , glowed from his screen, typing cursor blinking. Taunting him. Why hadn’t he sent it yet? She was in there, waiting for him. Just a thin wall and maybe 20 metres between them. He looked up through the windscreen at her room. _‘Second landing,’_ her text had read, _‘room 204. See u soon’._ Slivers of light from inside shone dimly through the gaps in the thick curtain. He had been longing for this. Aching for it. She was so fucking close. But he was paralyzed. He knew what he wanted to do; to sweep up there, knock on the door, and pull her into him. He wanted to press her body against his, tilt her head up and kiss her. _Really_ kiss her. Soft lips against cold teeth. Her melting into him. 

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t do that to her. She said that she found him attractive, but that wasn’t permission to touch her like that. He would never allow himself to cross that line. If he did, he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive himself. Marring her flesh with the poison of his being would be a sin for which he could never attone.

And so, he sat. Eye sockets fixed ahead, willing the strength to drag himself from the car to spontaneously manifest. Movement ahead caught his attention; the curtain shrouding her window pulled to the side, and her face peeked out from the corner. Her eyes traced the parking lot, and then settled on him.

Fuck. 

The curtain fell closed, and she disappeared. His phone buzzed. _‘U coming up? Or are u planning to sit in the car all night like a total weirdo?’_

He was caught. He didn’t have an excuse, now. He deleted the unsent message, tapped out a quick _‘be there in a moment’_ , and hit send as he gingerly unfurled his long frame from the driver’s seat, stepping onto the pocked asphalt. He didn’t bother with the façade, it wasn’t as if there was anyone around to see him anyway.

He reached her room and brought his fist up to knock on the door, but it swung open before his knuckles met the scuffed wood. His hand dropped back to his side, somewhat awkwardly. There she stood. Even in the terrible fluorescent light emanating from the desk lamp in the room behind her, she was somehow even more beautiful than he remembered. He swore he could feel a heart pounding in his chest. He was _definitely_ going mad. Her dark eyes met the space where his once were, and any coherent thoughts he had previously possessed flew from his mind. 

He found his voice again, though it came out choked and rough, “Valkyrie-”, but suddenly _she_ was kissing _him_. One arm wrapped around his spine at the base of his skull and pulled him against her so tightly he thought that his bones might shatter, the other fisted in the lapels of his suit jacket. Her lips were warm and he could feel the heat radiating from her body and soaking into his bones and all he could do was stand there and drown in it. Drown in her. She froze, pulling away, and it was over as abruptly as it had started. He realized, somewhat dully, that he hadn’t moved at all since the door had opened. He had just stood. Silent and unmoving. She had realized this too. 

“Skulduggery, oh my god, I’m sorry-” her words flew out in a breathless rush, tripping over each other on their way past her lips, “-I didn’t mean to… I mean… I- oh god I’m so sorry.”

He was still dazed, but his thoughts swirled violently. Each contradicting the previous. He _knew_ it was wrong to touch her. To be touched. He was despicable, and she deserved far better than anything he could offer. But he had never craved anything as fiercely as he did her. Before he could stop himself, he stepped forward, and pulled her into him again. The movement was too rapid to be smooth. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was her. He leaned his head down, and pressed his teeth against her lips. 

This time, though, allowed himself to move with her. It was clumsy. He hadn’t been in a position like this in years, and he was out of practice. She didn’t seem to mind. They clung to each other like that, seemingly unable to get close enough. Her hand went to his skull, thumb tracing gently down the contour of his jawbone. A quiet sigh fell from her lips and it ignited a fire within him that had been extinguished for years. 

When they eventually disentangled themselves, Valkyrie’s face was flushed. The embarrassment that had clouded her features had been replaced with something else. Something he couldn’t quite read. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamt of that,” she all but whispered, her fingers tracing from his jaw to his clavicle. 

Once again, he was at a loss for words. He pulled back, turning slightly to close the door that had been standing open behind them. He was stalling. Once he was somewhat confident that he was capable of speech, he faced her, tilting his head, “dreamt of what?” 

She gave him a look, “what the hell do you think?” 

“Hmm,” he murmured, “you’ve often dreamt of kissing a skull in a filthy motel room?” 

For the first time since he had arrived, he took the opportunity to really take in the disastrous state of her lodging. It _was_ filthy. The carpet was stained, the wallpaper peeling. Despite the faded “no smoking” sign on the front door, it smelled like an ashtray. Her small suitcase sat against the wall, black jacket draped over the handle. His gaze fell upon a half-emptied bottle of gin on the bedside table. He didn’t mention it. 

“Shut up. You know exactly what I mean,” she said, giving his arm a halfhearted punch. 

“There's a cockroach on the pillow,” Skulduggery replied. 

“What?” she spun immediately to face the bed, recoiling in horror when her eyes fell on the massive insect resting comfortably on the duvet, “oh my god! Ew!”

He looked on, amused, as she scrambled behind him and shielded herself with his body. 

“Valkyrie,” he said, turning his head to look at her from the corner of his eye socket, “you’ve defeated foes far more menacing than this.”

Her response was quiet, voice tinged with revulsion, “but it’s a fucking _cockroach,_ you prick! God, please kill it.” 

“Calling names, now, are we?” Skulduggery said, directing his gaze back towards the beast in question.

Her reply was laden with a combination of annoyance and horror, “I’m sorry, arsehole, this is a bit of an emotionally charged moment for me.”

“You’re an astoundingly perplexing woman,” he said, grabbing a disposable plastic cup from the top of the mini fridge. Slowly, he approached the bed, the cup wielded in his left hand, the other braced to strike if his plan went awry. The insect was within arms reach, now, and it still hadn’t moved. It just sat there. Almost pompous in its utter disregard for the commotion surrounding it. He gingerly positioned the cup above it and began to slowly lower his hand. The moment the lip of the cup met the pillow, the thing sped off towards the center of the bed. Valkyrie shrieked and jumped on top of the desk chair. 

With the notion of a humane capture-and-release foiled, Skulduggery lunged, slamming his gloved fist onto the covered mattress. The cockroach ran, this time back towards the headboard. He stood, and it halted. Mocking him. He threw himself forward and it began to speed off once again, scurrying over the headboard and onto the smoke-yellowed wallpaper, but this time he was able to anticipate its trickery. His palm landed hard against the wall and he was rewarded with a satisfying crunch. Less satisfying, however, was the brown slime that was now smeared across the leather of his glove. He looked back towards Valkyrie. She was still positioned atop the chair on the opposite side of the room, eyes wide.

“Did you get it?” she asked. He gestured to his ruined glove in response. Relieved, she stepped down from her perch. 

“I quite liked this pair,” Skulduggery lamented, bending to wipe the mess onto the duvet. He doubted that the management would notice the new addition to the myriad of filth layered over the room like a collage. He turned to face Valkyrie fully, and had to stifle a laugh at the expression of shocked disgust on her face. 

“You’ve ruined my bed,” she glowered, crossing her arms.

“It was ruined long before you arrived,” he retorted. 

“Okay, but it’s _more_ ruined now. You could have wiped it on your trousers.” 

“And ruin this exquisite suit? You’re insane.” 

“Maybe I am. But that isn’t the point,” Valkyrie said, approaching him.

“You could-” he hesitated, “you could come stay at mine for the night. If you’d like,” it was a dangerous thing to offer, he knew this the moment the words had left him. She had spent the night with him before, of course, but this felt different. It felt presumptuous to suggest, even if there was good reason for it. He had to fight to keep the nerves from invading his voice, his tone casual and even.

She glanced towards the insect smear across the wall, and then back to meet his gaze, “yeah. That would be nice, actually.”

It took less than a minute for her to gather her belongings. She wheeled her suitcase to the door, threw her jacket over her shoulders, and stuffed the bottle of gin into the breast pocket. Skulduggery went to the Bentley while she returned her room key to the front desk. 

He could see her, through the glass doors to the lobby, talking to the employee at the front desk. Something about her, the way she moved, was different. Her presence felt… smaller. Once, she had radiated confidence. Everything about her had been bold and self-assured. She wasn’t anymore. She walked like she owed the world a favor, like she wasn’t worth the space she took up. It was his fault. His actions, intentional or otherwise, had led to this. He broke her. He didn’t protect her. She hadn’t needed protection, of course, she was unimaginably strong even before she had trained her body to be ruthless. But still, she hadn’t needed to be subjected to the torment she’d faced in the years by his side. 

God, he shouldn’t have kissed her. The fact that she had kissed him first was irrelevant. He shouldn’t have lost control like that. He allowed it, and worse, he had initiated after she had drawn back in embarrassment. It was wrong. He was wrong. What the hell was he doing? And now she was coming to stay with him. Jesus christ. This was a mistake. His pathetic excuse for self-control had been overwhelmed so easily that he wondered if it had ever actually existed in the first place. Was she expecting more, now? When they arrive at his home, would she want to continue? Would she want to go further? He wasn’t sure what, exactly, she would expect “further” to be. He wasn’t sure he could allow himself to find out. But, would it be crueler to reject her? 

They both wanted this, he knew that. But he also knew that it was terribly, irredeemably wrong. He was disgusting. He was a terrible old man, and she was… beyond him. She was a ray of light in a bleak, disappointing world. He couldn’t let his darkness leech into her any further than it already had. He had to stop this, he had to-

“Hey,” Valkyrie’s voice, quiet though it was, shot through him like an electric current. He turned his skull to face her, immensely thankful that he didn’t have an expression to read. She could still read him, he knew that, but he hoped that the time spent apart had allowed her to fall far enough out of practice to miss the turmoil that was brewing within him. She crossed the distance between them and leaned against the Bentley, her suitcase rolling to a stop by her feet, and looked at him expectantly. 

“Are we driving separately?” Skulduggery inquired, praying that his voice sounded normal. 

“Would it be alright if I rode with you?” she sounded almost sheepish, “I’ve had a bit to drink. I can come pick up the rental in the morning.” 

“Of course,” he said, stepping around her to place her bag in the boot, “the doors are unlocked.” The task took a little longer than was strictly necessary. He needed a moment to collect himself, to shake the guilt that blanketed his mind like a thick fog. Was he doing the right thing? It certainly didn’t feel like it. Realizing that the amount of time he was spending loading a single item of luggage was rapidly approaching the point of ‘weird’, he shut the boot and strode leisurely towards the front to take his seat beside her. He wondered if she noticed that her seat hadn’t needed to be adjusted. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned his key in the ignition and the Bentley started with a purr. The car meandered onto the dark street beyond and all he could think about was how right this felt. Her beside him again. Driving together. He could see her in his peripheral vision, the occasional street lamps casting a sporadic golden glow across her features. She gazed out the window, lost in thought.

He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the rear view. 

What the fuck was _wrong_ with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took longer than i meant to because work is a bitch but here we are. i promise there will be sex scenes soon im just caught up in the angst babey


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a segment of what ended up being a 20+ page monstrosity, which i am still currently writing, so i decided to break it up into to pieces because ive been working on this thing for-fucking-ever and i just wanted to publish it already. consider this chapter 3, part 1.

The hum of tires on pavement was thunderous, though Skulduggery could scarcely hear it over the cacophony of his own thoughts. They had only covered the first fifteen minutes of what was to be an hour long drive. These fifteen minutes, short though they were, had seemed to drag into an eternity. Valkyrie stared out the passenger window at the dark road that blurred past. She hadn’t said anything since he had joined her in the car. Nor had he, for that matter. The silence that hung in the air was pervasive. Suffocating. 

This sort of tension was an oddity. Together, they had always been beyond the usual niceties established among polite society. There was no need to fill an awkward silence, as their silences were never awkward. It was an unspoken understanding between them. Discussion need not be forced. Being with her, in conversation or otherwise, had always felt so astonishingly natural that sometimes it was difficult not to think of Valkyrie as an extension of himself; he an extension of Valkyrie. 

Something had changed, though, in the years that she had been absent. He couldn’t quite put his finger on which specific aspect of their dynamic had shifted, nor the moment at which this shift had occurred. It just… had. At some point, unbeknownst to either of them, they had fallen out of sync. Clocks once set in perfect unison that no longer kept the same time. 

This silence _did_ feel awkward. He had the bizarre urge to comment on the weather, to overlay the quiet with small talk. That was ludicrous, of course. They didn’t _do_ small talk. If he were to begin a conversation about the unusually pleasant streak of sunny days they’d had recently, or the scores of a sporting event, Valkyrie would immediately know that something was terribly wrong. Especially considering his vehement and frequently vocalized disinterest in sports.

Valkyrie and her relentless observations. She could see through him like glass. 

Valkyrie. God, Valkyrie. That wit of hers, tongue like a dagger. The brilliance that rendered anyone near her dull in comparison. Magnetic. Beautiful. God, she was stunningly beautiful. The word seemed ill-equipped to describe her. That hair, flowing over her shoulders like a waterfall of liquid onyx, dark eyes scorching him where her gaze lingered. Those lips, full and soft…

His mind fell back to the kiss, the memory bouncing around his skull like a pinball. He cursed himself for allowing it in the first place. For encouraging it. But yet, he realized, the manner in which he dwelled was not entirely congruent with contrition. He _liked_ it. The heat in his chest, ignited by her touch, still had not even begun to burn out. 

He could still feel the phantom twist in his gut when he remembered the way she felt against him. The warmth. The contours of her strong body framing his bones. He wanted to stop thinking about it. He absolutely did. He didn’t want to think about the kiss, or what might have followed. What might still follow. 

He didn’t want to think about hitching her legs over his hip bones, her arms wrapped around his neck, and kissing her as though it were his final act. He didn’t want to think about how he could hoist her up against the wall and use the leverage to keep her in place, gloved hands firm on the curve of her ass. A trail of kisses down her jaw to her neck. A soft nip at the sensitive skin above her clavicle. He certainly didn’t want to think about the sounds she would make. Breathy sighs against the space where his ear should be as he unbuttoned her top with his teeth. The logistics of that one were questionable, but he was a talented man. He could make it work. If all else failed, he would just have to rip it off of her. God, he wanted to _fuck_ her. Properly fuck her, hard and deep, make her scream his name like a prayer. 

No, that was all wrong. He wouldn’t fuck her like that. What they did together, it would be making love. He would be sweet. Attentive. That was what she deserved. He would lay her down on the bed and undress her slowly, leaving soft kisses in his wake. Trace delicate patterns on her skin until she begged for him. Then he would make his way downwards. He would spend hours between her thighs, using the mouth he didn’t have to coax quiet gasps from her own.

The lack of flesh was admittedly a serious predicament. China had been working on the façade, though. It covered all of him now, in a strikingly realistic fashion. However, he had not yet possessed either the time nor the particular inclination to test the… functionality… of the new features. Even if it did work, though, there were other issues to consider. Upon activation, what if she found the face he wore to be grievously unattractive? Would she reject him, then? Would an ugly face over his skull be enough to shake her from whatever incomprehensible force was driving this attraction in the first place? 

Beside him, Valkyrie let out a particularly deep exhale, and reality sucker punched him in the jaw. What the ungodly _fuck_ was he doing? Even for him, this was disgusting. All because of a kiss? A kiss didn’t mean anything. Christ, it absolutely did _not_ mean that she wanted to _fuck_ him. How long had he been fantasizing about this? 

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Ten minutes. He supposed that wasn’t terrible, considering the depths of depravity he had allowed his mind to slip into. The elapsed time was certainly not the worst aspect of this situation. He was a fucking disgrace. His vision hadn’t strayed from the road, but he was clutching the steering wheel so tightly that he thought that the bones of his hand might fall to dust inside of his glove. 

Fuck. Okay. He needed to say something. The subject matter was irrelevant. He needed to occupy his mind with something other than _this_. The silence within the car was a yawning void that threatened to swallow him whole.

“So,” Skulduggery said. The word came out unintentionally rough. Damn it. He fought to keep his eye sockets fixed on the road that stretched before them. Seconds passed, and the deafening silence rushed back in to fill the gaps.

It became obvious that he had no intention of speaking further, and Valkyrie looked at him quizzically, “So…?” 

“So.” he said again, the intonation now indicative of a statement rather than the beginning of a sentence.

“Are you planning to follow that up with anything, or are you just testing your ability to create sound?”

He hesitated. “The latter,” he said, defeated. He was so fucking stupid. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He had hoped that, once he began, conversation would come easily to him again. It didn’t. If anything, he felt as if his ability to speak had further deteriorated in the preceding moments, and wasn’t showing any signs of regeneration. 

Finally, a thought occurred to him, and he jumped on it immediately before it had time to slither away.

“Uh,” he said dumbly, “do you want to put some music on?” 

As he spoke, he clumsily rummaged in the glove compartment for the AUX cord, vision still locked on the road. He found it, and thrust it towards her blindly. Valkyrie stared at him as if he had sprouted wings. She didn’t reach for the cord. 

“Skulduggery, are you alright?” 

“Marvelous. Stupendous. Absolutely and unequivocally fabulous,” he lowered his hand, cable still clutched between gloved fingers, “can’t you tell?” 

“You’re full of shit,” Valkyrie said. 

God _fucking_ damn it.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, feigning ignorance. He returned the cable to its place. 

“You’re not as difficult to read as you think you are, Skulduggery. All those years without a face have made you cocky,” she huffed, “I know you. You can’t hide anything from me.”

Oh god, did she know what he had been thinking about? Could she somehow sense the disgusting, shameful thoughts he had indulged in before this conversation? No, she couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly know the specifics of what was going on in his mind, although even a general gist of the subject matter would be plenty problematic. There was no way she could, though. 

She probably just meant that she could tell that he was troubled. That had to be it. He wasn’t _that_ transparent. And it wasn’t as if he had the anatomy to display any sort of physical signs. He knew this, but he quickly glanced down at his lap anyway, suddenly immensely thankful that his lack of eyes made it impossible to gauge the direction of his gaze. 

“Is that so?” was the only response he could muster. He used to be so articulate, what the fuck happened?

“Well, yeah, that’s why I said it,” Valkyrie shot back, “you’re clearly conflicted. And from the events of the past, I dunno, two hours? I think I can guess why.”

Damn it. She was good. She knew what was bothering him, and he wasn’t going to deny it, but he also wouldn’t be entirely forthcoming. He needed her to say it first, to prevent himself from accidentally divulging more than she was already aware of. 

“Hmm,” Skulduggery stalled, “what _am_ I conflicted about?”

“Come on. You know that I know.” 

“What do I know you know?”

“You are _such_ a pain in the ass,” she said, “the kiss, you idiot. I know that you’re conflicted about the kiss. Maybe you’re wondering what it might mean for us. And maybe you’re asking yourself where we go from here.” 

Skulduggery hummed in response, trying his best not to particularly indicate either way. 

“Just say it. Say that I’m right,” she said, “I already know that I am, but we can’t talk through it until we’ve established the source of the problem.”

She _was_ right, though she had only brushed the surface of the deeper issue. Why was this so hard for him? This could be an easy out, he could admit that he had been thinking about the kiss, and tell her that he was worried about the ramifications for their friendship. They could establish that their current relationship was too important to risk by getting emotions involved, and that would be the end of it. No hurt feelings. So why couldn’t he say it? 

“That’s…” he trailed off for a moment, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel, “that’s not the whole of it.” 

She unbuckled her seatbelt so that she could turn her body to face him, crossing her legs and leaning back against the car door.

“What is, then?” she asked. Her tone was casual, but he could hear the faintest bit of insecurity behind her words. 

“Fasten your seatbelt, and I’ll tell you,” he said, turning his head to glance at her for a moment in a manner that he hoped was appropriately authoritative. 

“I’ll fasten my seatbelt _after_ you’ve told me”

“Well then, it appears that we've reached a stalemate, haven’t we?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Skulduggery, I’m unbelievably stubborn. I’ll die in a car wreck before I let you win this,” Valkyrie paused, “please don’t wreck the car, though.”

“Do you really think that I would so much as _scratch_ the Bentley to prove a point?” Skulduggery replied, aghast.

“I don’t know, actually. I would imagine that your love for this car and and your propensity for stubbornness is roughly equal, so it really could go either way” 

He scoffed, “and you claim to know me. I would never damage this car voluntarily, no matter how petty I was feeling.”

“Okay, fabulous. So I won’t be putting on the seatbelt then.”

“Valkyrie,” he said, trying to lend an edge to his voice. 

Valkyrie’s eyes were wide with mock innocence, “yes, Skulduggery?” 

“Please.”

“You’re not winning this, you big baby. Just _talk_ to me,” she said, and unfurled her legs to place her feet up on the dashboard, body still angled to face him. She was trying to irritate him into submission. Clever.

“Fine,” Skulduggery said with an exasperated sigh, but made no move to continue speaking. He wasn’t sure what to say, to be honest. But she wasn’t going to let him out of this that easily. 

In his peripheral vision, he watched her pull the bottle of gin from her jacket and take a swig. He turned his head towards her in a way that he hoped suggested a raised eyebrow. 

“Emotional intimacy isn’t easy for me either. Especially when I’m sober,” she explained, “I’d offer you a swig, but you’re driving.”

“Yes. That, and I’m a skeleton,” Skulduggery pointed out. 

Valkyrie waved her hand dismissively, “yeah, yeah. Whatever. Get back to the talking.”

She was sounding more and more like her old self, the Valkyrie that he had known before all of this. He tried not to think about it. She cleared her throat to regain his attention, staring expectantly. 

“I am conflicted about the kiss, but not just because of what it might mean. That is part of it, but…” Skulduggery hesitated, “I’m a bad man, Valkyrie. I’ve done terrible things. I’ve killed people, and hurt plenty more. I’ve hurt you. I can never atone for the crimes I’ve committed. You deserve so much better than me,” his voice faltered, “I suppose that I’m conflicted because, despite that, I still want you. Desperately. I _wanted_ to kiss you, and I have for a lot longer than I’d like to admit. God, Valkyrie, I want to do more than kiss you. But it’s wrong, and inconceivably selfish. I loathe myself for it.”

He finished speaking, but didn’t look at her response. His vision locked on the road in front of them. They were rapidly approaching Cemetery road, and for that he was equal parts grateful and apprehensive. 

“Is that it?” Valkyrie said, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen over them. 

Skulduggery paused, confusion painting his words “... is that not enough?”

“So, you’ve done bad things, and you want to fuck me? That’s what you’re all broody about?” she sounded relieved. As if this was the preferable outcome of this situation. Whatever reaction he had been anticipating, this definitely was not it. 

Skulduggery said nothing. His mind was blank.

Valkyrie huffed, “I don’t care about any of that. I’ve _also_ done terrible things. Have you forgotten about Darquesse? I am single handedly responsible for the death of countless innocents, including my fucking sister. Do you hate me for that? Because I definitely hate myself enough for the both of us. I don’t ‘ _deserve better,’”_ she hesitated, “and, for the record, I also want to fuck you. So I think we’re pretty much even.” 

If he had possessed a beating heart, it would have stopped. On some level he had known that she might desire something more than an arguably chaste kiss in a hotel room, but this wasn’t conjecture anymore. This was tangible. Vocal confirmation that she wanted him. Skulduggery felt as if the earth was splitting open beneath him. 

He desperately attempted to formulate a reply. Something witty, maybe. Something to defuse the bomb that was going off inside of his skull. 

His jaw opened and closed a few times before the words were able to claw their way out, “Valkyrie, I hardly think that—“

Valkyrie had maneuvered herself across the seat, bringing herself closer to him. He had been too consumed by his thoughts to notice. Her hand bridged the gap between them and rested on the bone of his thigh. 

Fuck.

He had been struggling to compose a sentence before, but it was nothing compared to the way his entire consciousness seemed to vacate his mind and pool in the hollow of his abdomen. If he had flesh, it would have been ablaze. This was ridiculous. It was such a small gesture, it could even be considered innocent in the right context. Couldn’t it? She probably didn’t mean anything by it. She was just being affectionate.

Her hand lifted slightly, her fingers gently brushing upwards and settling at the junction of his femur and hip. 

_Fuck_. 

He made a small, strangled sound that he _desperately_ hoped hadn’t been audible. Her amused hum shattered that notion before it had time to properly manifest. Why was he reacting this way? What the fuck was wrong with him? He had no skin to touch, no nerves to ignite. This was insane. He dared a glance in her direction, and the look in her eyes almost made him crash the car. 

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Valkyrie asked casually. As she spoke, she was gliding her fingertips over the spot where there definitely would have been evidence of his current predicament, had he been in possession of flesh and blood.

“Valkyrie,” he tried again, choked, “I— you understand that I’m a skeleton, correct?” he cleared his throat, though he had no throat to clear, “you’re touching the frame of my suit.”

“Hm,” she mused, “then why are you so flustered?”

She moved her hand to cup him; or, the lack of him, rather.

It took him a moment to find his voice again, though it was still painfully unsteady, “To be completely honest, I don’t quite understand that myself.”

“So,” Valkyrie murmured, “If we were to… go further than we did previously, how would that work?”as she spoke, her hand continued its expedition, tracing nonsensical patterns along the hollow of his inner thigh. 

He forced himself to continue looking at the road. It was immensely difficult. _Needlessly_ difficult. He really had no idea how her actions had this sort of effect on his cognitive faculties. 

They were almost back to his house, he had to focus on that. Maybe 5 more minutes in the car. He couldn’t decide if the phantom nerves fluttering in his chest were from dread or excitement.

“It depends what you mean by _‘further’_ ,” he replied. 

Valkyrie paused for a moment; contemplative. Then she asked, her voice so bold that it made him dizzy, “how do I make a skeleton come?”

His thoughts trudged through his mind at the velocity of a rock half-heartedly tossed through tar. He considered trying a distraction, something to change the subject. Why, though? Was he embarrassed? Humiliated to admit that he was far too dead to receive any form of physical pleasure? He wasn’t quite sure why that prospect was so difficult to confront. He had been asked this question before, or something similar, and had been able to answer with his usual level of suavity. That didn’t matter, though. _Valkyrie_ had never been the one to ask it. She was the inconstant variable in this equation.

Once he had regained the ability to speak, he found himself responding in earnest, “I— uh— you can’t, exactly. I’ve— well, China, has been working on the façade, and— I don’t know if it would— If I could— but I can do other things. For you,” he sounded like a fucking teenager. He thought that he had thoroughly bested his stutter centuries ago, but she always did have a way of challenging his core beliefs. The words tumbled over themselves as they fell from his jaw and he imagined the sentence toppling to the floor in a heap. Pathetic.

She hummed again, fingers drawing those patterns along the fabric of his trousers. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been touched in a way that even slightly resembled this. He wasn’t sure if he ever had. It took everything he had to maintain what little self control remained. 

They were on his street, now, and it felt as if the butterflies were attempting to burst through his ribcage. All of this was in his head, he had to remind himself of that. There were no nerves to twist in his gut. He had no physical capacity for anxiety, however fearsome the symptoms seemed to be at the moment. He could override it with pure force of will. 

They pulled into the long driveway, and he slowed the car to an unnecessarily lethargic pace. He was stalling, unsure of how to proceed. As long as they stayed in the car, he wouldn’t have to confront the situation. 

He wanted her. Desperately. Tragically. It was pathetic, this overt longing that seemed to overpower all of his capability for higher thought. Consciously, he knew that the desire was mutual. That knowledge did nothing to quell the cyclone of emotions that tore through him. This was wrong. Beyond wrong. He was a monster for even considering it. Disgusting, pathetic monster.

“Valkyrie, are you-” Skulduggery hesitated, struggling to keep his tone steady, “are you sure that this is what you want? Are you sure that you want… me?” 

“Skulduggery,” she said, leaning into him, her breath grazing his cheekbone, “I’ve always wanted you.”

Her hand grasped the back of the seat for support as she gracefully slung a leg across his lap, straddling him in the driver’s seat. The act was so bold, so wanton, that he thought it might have killed him were he not already a dead man. The roof of the car forced her head low, her face mere centimeters from where his should have been. She stayed like that for a moment, gazing down at him, and he wondered if the fire in her eyes was enough to reduce him to ash. Part of him hoped that it was. 

She dipped her head lower to press warm lips to the contour of his jaw bone and _God_ he was alive again. He took in the weight of her against him and the heat of her breath and swore he felt the bone scorch where her lips fell. She continued her journey up the side of his skull, a trail of searing kisses from the joint of his jaw to the cheekbone. His thoughts were a dull echo, an endlessly repeating mantra, _ValkyrieValkyrieValkyrie_.

She pulled back to look at him again. He tilted his head up to face her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He felt her desperation, her longing, coursing through her and into him where they connected. It drove him mad. 

He moved with her, teeth against lips, matching her fervor. Where their previous kisses had been soft, tentative, this was feral. They were ravenous and untamed. The culmination of every lonely night spent apart, every shameful daydream embarrassingly halted in its tracks. Something was building inside of him, ancient and powerful, and he ached with it. Before he could think, he reached blindly for the handle of the car door and threw it open, not breaking the kiss. His hands found their way beneath her, encircling her in his arms, and he deftly stepped from the car without disconnecting. Standing now, he braced her back against the rear door so that she could wrap her legs around his waist. 

They remained like that, lost in each other. He didn’t know for how long. Time meant nothing with her.

Valkyrie shivered beneath him. The night was dark, and the cold air had begun to seep through her meager jacket. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss. She let out a quiet whine as he pulled away. 

Skulduggery brushed his gloved thumb down her cheek to her lips, his forehead resting against hers, and spoke, “you’re freezing.”

“Only a bit,” Valkyrie lied, visibly suppressing another shiver. 

“Let’s get you inside,” he said, trying to ignore the way that sentence made the emptiness inside of him lurch. Trying to ignore the implication behind it, what it might mean to invite her into his home after a night like this. He almost succeeded. Almost. 

As he pulled back, Skulduggery manipulated the air to lift her gently, utilizing the newfound freedom of his limbs to reposition so that he could carry her bridal style. She let out a hysterical laugh as she landed softly across his arms.

“Did you really just toss me? Oh my god!” she said through a fit of giggles. 

“I didn’t _toss_ you. I _lifted_ you” he replied, sudden embarrassment clearing the fog from his mind, “I- I thought it would be romantic to carry you across the threshold. I can put you down if you’d prefer”

“No,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck, “please continue, Casanova.” 

Skulduggery scoffed, “Casanova. You know, the tales of his exploits were _greatly_ exaggerated.”

“Skulduggery, do not tell me that you personally knew Casanova.” 

“Valkyrie, my darling, I dearly wish that I could. The man was insufferable” he said, kicking the Bentley door shut with one polished shoe, “and his utilization of signum linguistics was, for lack of a better phrase, morally questionable.” 

She stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly, “Casa-fucking-nova was a _sorcerer_? Are you kidding me?”

“ _Barely_ a sorcerer,” Skulduggery replied, voice thick with disdain, “you’re familiar with China’s… magnetism. Well, Giac used a similar strategy. Not nearly as effective, mind you, but he still managed to ‘accomplish his goals’ as it were.” 

“Jesus christ. So he…? He used magic to…” Valkyrie said, still processing, “Casanova used _magic_ to be a _slag_?” 

Skulduggery slowed his stride towards the house to look down at her, “... I suppose you could put it that way.”

“Wow,” was the only response she gave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kill me


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 consecutive pages of smut? why yes i AM extremely sane and normal thank you for asking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every time i wonder if my characterization is too flawed and messy i remember that darquesse canonically gave birth to herself next to several other darquesse(s) & some dude in a plague doctor mask. nothing is real. i am allowed, nay, obligated, to write like shit. thanks landy

“You’re right,” Valkyrie remarked as Skulduggery carried her across the threshold, “that was dreadfully romantic.” 

“I told you that it would be,” he replied, kicking the door shut behind them, “shall I put you down now?” 

Her arms wrapped tighter around his neck. “I don’t know. I kind of like this,” she said.

“I quite like it too,” he murmured, tilting his head, “however, I may require the use of my hands at some point this evening.” 

He realized the implication of the sentence the moment it left him, so Valkyrie’s raised eyebrow in response felt almost redundant.

“I- ” he began, “I didn’t mean for that to sound presumptuous.” Her other eyebrow raised to join its twin. 

“You are _so_ ridiculous, you know that?” she laughed, though he wasn’t sure that he saw the humor. With any hope of a suitable response failing him, he settled for a non-committal but vaguely inquisitive hum. 

Valkyrie was still smiling, giving her head a small shake in disbelief, “less than half an hour ago I told you, in no uncertain terms, that I want to fuck you. We just made out against your car for like, way longer than I’ve ever made out with someone against a car before. And you’re worried that saying you that you _may need to use your hands tonight_ , in an innocent context, is presumptuous? God!” 

“You… you raised your eyebrow.” 

She rolled her eyes, “well, yeah. Of course I did. Have you met me?”

“Yes, I’m fairly certain that I have,” he muttered. 

“Fairly certain?” 

“I try not to be too certain of anything these days.” 

As he spoke, Skulduggery caught a glimpse of their reflection in the mirror across the foyer. Him, standing awkwardly by the door, Valkyrie still perched in his arms. The house was dark, save for the small lamp he had managed to flick on with a strategically placed tendril of wind as they walked through the door.

He felt her shiver again, and realized that he had not bothered to turn on the heat in months. 

“It’s not much warmer in here than it is outside, is it?” 

“Not really. There isn’t any wind in here, though, so it’s an improvement,” she replied, pulling herself closer against him, as if he had any body heat to share. 

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t planned for guests,” 

She laughed, “I’m a guest, am I?” 

“I don’t know. What other term should I use?” 

“Friend? Partner?,” she paused, lifting her face towards him for emphasis, “lover?” 

“Hm. I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, finally walking them towards the living room. He briefly considered bringing her to the bedroom he had built for her, thoroughly stocked with an abundance of blankets, but discarded the notion immediately. That would _absolutely_ be too presumptuous, regardless of intent. He made his way to the couch, flicking on lights with the air as he went. 

He set her down, and she flung herself onto the couch, letting out a sigh as she landed and tossing her jacket carelessly over the armrest. It struck him as rather counter-productive to remove her jacket while she was still obviously freezing, but decided not to comment. Instead, he set off in search of a blanket. The further he got from the living room, the louder his thoughts became. He had to force himself not to think about how remarkably empty he felt now that she was no longer in his arms. When he wasn’t touching her. He didn’t think about it while he retrieved a woolen quilt from the closet near the stairs, nor did he think about it as he set the thermostat to a temperature that resembled a home rather than a meat-locker. He _certainly_ didn’t think about it while he walked back towards her, a phantom heart _absolutely not_ pounding an increasingly violent tempo at his ribcage.

He returned, brandishing the quilt as the ventilation system kicked on, heat flowing into the room. She sat up straighter as he draped it around her shoulders. He wondered if he should take a seat beside her. Would it be better for him to keep his distance? He didn’t want to crowd. It was a small couch, two individuals would not be able to share it without some degree of contact. Of course he _wanted_ to touch her, but he didn’t want to put her into an uncomfortable situation. She might have changed her mind about all of this. She probably had. There had been ample opportunity for her to come to her senses, and realize what a miserable, unlovable cretin he was. Perhaps she was waiting for him to step out of the room so that she could escape and call a taxi back to her hotel. He wouldn't blame her. But, maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she was looking at her idiot partner, standing by the couch, and wondering why the hell he hadn’t just sat down yet. 

Hm. No, it probably wasn’t that. 

He stayed there for another moment, mulling over his options, and decided to stall so that he had more time to figure out the appropriate course of action. 

“Would you like some tea?” he said, rather stupidly. 

She stared at him, “No, thank you,” she said, her brow furrowed in mild confusion, “are you okay?”

“Splendid,” he lied, “why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s just that you’ve been standing there for an abnormally long time,” she said. She shifted slightly towards the arm rest, and patted the cushion next to her, signaling him to sit down. He did, but kept his body angled away, just in case. 

She hesitated, “Skulduggery,” her voice was quiet, “are you having second thoughts about all of this? Because, if you are, we can stop. I’ve been… instigating things… because I knew that you wouldn’t. But I don’t want to pressure you or anything, if this isn’t what you want.”

He turned to face her, shocked. Again, the language center of his mind seemed to have evacuated. 

“Valkyrie, no. That’s not-“ he said, staring pointedly towards the carpet as though it were the most interesting thing he had ever seen, “I thought that you might have been. Having second thoughts, I mean. I certainly wouldn’t blame you if you were,” 

“I’m not. God, of course I’m not,” she shifted towards him, the blanket sliding off her shoulders with the movement, “do you want to know what I’m thinking about?” 

He didn’t reply, nor did he look up at her. 

She continued, “I’m thinking about you. How long I’ve wanted this and how hilariously, stupidly giddy I am that it’s finally happened. I’m thinking about how coming back to Ireland may have been the best decision of my life. Skulduggery, I’m thinking about how being here, with you, feels like home. _You_ feel like home.”

Tentatively, she placed her hand over his where it sat on the frame of his thigh, and he tilted his skull to face her. Fuck, she was so phenomenally beautiful. The way the lamp light illuminated her face, casting shadows over the perfect curve of her lips, across the sculpture of her cheekbones. Her eyes fixed on him, taking him apart piece by piece until he was nothing but atoms. He swore he could feel a pulse thrumming within him. 

He lifted his free hand, bringing the palm to rest on her jaw, thumb gently stroking her cheek. She leaned into his hand, eyes falling closed, a smile on the corner of her lips. 

When she looked at him again, it was as if the world stopped turning. Everything beyond her was blurred. Meaningless. She was all that existed. She was everything. He had never been one to believe in fate, predetermined outcomes, but something within him screamed that this was the way it was meant to be. He was hers, mind, body, and soul. He always had been. Always would be. 

She leaned into him, pressing her lips against his cheek, a hand finding its way below his suit jacket and splaying across the frame that masked his ribcage. She kissed him again, and again, her lips painting an abstract masterpiece on the canvas of his skull. He felt each spot where her lips had touched, and imagined them pouring light. She found where his lips should have been, and he was gone. 

His free hand wove its way into her hair, the other still held beneath hers. He wondered how each kiss could be so dramatically different. This was not tentative, nor was it fevered. This was something else. This was soft. Knowing. He felt as if his soul lay bare before her, and hers before him. 

Her fingers danced across his chest, from sternum to collarbone. She grasped the lapels of his jacket, tugging him towards her and straightening her legs so that he could lay himself over her. It was clumsy, the lack of space limiting their range of motion, the blanket tangled between them, but that didn’t matter. He supported his weight on his elbow, while his newly freed hand rested at the curvature of her back. The heat of her skin where her shirt had ridden up burned through his glove. 

He pulled back for a moment, reluctantly, and she looked up at him through half lidded eyes.

“Is this okay?” she asked, eyes widening in sudden concern. 

“More than okay,” he responded, “but, would you like to move to a bigger couch?” 

“We are a bit tall for this one, aren’t we?” she said, looking over his shoulder at their jumbled limbs. 

“It’s a definite possibility.” 

She brought her eyes back to meet his, “how about the bed?” 

The suggestion sent a jolt of nerves straight to his core. He had thought that he was finally gaining some modicum of comfort in this, with her. But each incremental step they took towards the inevitable conclusion, the final act, filled him with fresh anxiety. Each small break allowed him the space to remember himself; space for the guilt to come flooding back and occupy the emptiness left by her warmth.

Fuck. No. This was okay. Everything was alright. He was here, with her. Just moments before, it had all felt so right. Nothing had changed. This was still right. _She_ was right. Valkyrie was here, her body splayed beneath him, and she wanted this. She wanted him, just as he wanted her. _God_ , how he wanted her. 

No, not wanted. Needed. Craved. Yearned. He had never realized how limited language could be before attempting to apply it to Valkyrie.

Skulduggery gazed down at her, those dark eyes fixed on him, and found his voice leaving him in a choked whisper, “please.”

As gracefully as he was able, he picked himself up from the couch. Standing now, he extended a hand so that she could pull herself up after him. She didn’t let go once she had risen. They remained stationary for a moment, facing each other, hand in gloved hand. He wasn’t sure how to proceed. Was he ever? She was right, he never would have made a move if she hadn’t been the one to initiate. He was far too cowardly. Even now, with the knowledge of everything that had transpired this evening careening through his skull, he found himself wondering if she actually meant it. If it wasn’t all just some terrible misunderstanding. _Could_ he have somehow misunderstood? Was she kissing him _as a friend_? Or, god, what if she was possessed, her actions driven by a revenant or some similar monstrosity? What if, weeks later, once they had identified and removed the occupying force, she was horrified at him for taking advantage of her compromised state? She would hate him. Certainly. She would hate him as he deserved to be hated. 

_No_. Jesus Christ. That was ridiculous. He was spiraling again. He knew that this was Valkyrie who stood before him. Valkyrie, in all of her glory. She was here. And she wanted him. And oh god, she was looking at him like he was insane. How long had they been standing here? It couldn’t have been too long, less than a minute perhaps. But still, long enough for her to register that something was amiss. 

Something was wrong with him. Everything was wrong with him. Why the _fuck_ was this so difficult? He was rapidly approaching half of a god damn _millennium_ on this planet. His sexual experience during that time was certainly respectable, especially considering the circumstances. He was no blushing virgin but, Christ, did he feel like one. Fuck, he still hadn’t moved. Lost in his own head. Fucking Jesus fucking _Christ_ he needed to stop _thinking_ and just — 

Before his mind could catch up with his body, he stepped forward and pulled her in, crushing her lips against him. She returned the kiss with matching ferocity, her look of vague confusion melting as he fisted his hands in her long hair. He brought them down, a smooth caress over her neck, her shoulders, down the contour of her waist and over her hips, stopping when he reached her ass. Grabbing ahold of her thighs, he lifted her so that she could wrap her legs around him, straddling his midsection, toned arms coiled around his neck, and he walked them towards the bedroom. 

Amazingly, he didn’t stumble once. An incredible feat, considering the way she kissed him ensured that very little of his mental energy was directed towards his legs. They reached the bed. Skulduggery laid her down gently atop the duvet, and found himself still positioned between her legs. He broke the kiss, ever so briefly, to direct a spark towards the scented candle he had left for her on the bedside years ago. He hadn’t been in this room much, since she had left. It was _her_ room. 

She glanced towards the now-lit candle, and back to him, “that was kind of hot.” 

“Fire does tend to be,” he replied, his voice low.

She gave him a playful smack against his jaw, but her hand remained where it had landed. Her fingers relaxed to cup his cheek.

“You’re kind of hot,” she whispered, as if her words might offend the flame. 

He brought his hand up to rest on her waist, the other arm cradled below her neck, supporting his weight above her, “I do tend to be.” 

“You’re an ass,” she said.

“Valkyrie, you put fire to shame with your very presence,” he murmured.

“Was that your way of calling me hot?” 

“What do you think?”

“I think you speak like a bad poetry book when you’re nervous.” 

“What if I told you,” he began, bringing his teeth to graze the soft skin of her neck, “how many countless hours I’ve spent dreaming of this”

She shivered beneath him, “I thought you didn’t dream.”

“I dream only of you,” 

She hummed quietly, “that doesn’t answer the question.” 

“I’m trying to wax poetic,” he whispered, teeth traveling the sharp line of her collarbone, “and you didn’t ask a question.” Skulduggery shifted his hand from her waist to her stomach, a caress across the hardened plane of her abs where her shirt had ridden up. 

Her face tilted up towards the headboard, a quiet gasp from her lips, “I can’t concentrate on witty retorts when you touch me like this.”

“Mm,” he said against her neck, “would you like me to stop?”

“God, please don't.”

“God is a bit much, you can just call me Skulduggery.” 

“You’re an id-” her words were choked as he nipped the flesh of her earlobe. 

“I’m a what?”

“An idiot” she gasped.

“Ah. Very true.”

“Please, christ, just fuck me you idiot,” 

His gloved fingers toyed with the button of her trousers, and he lifted his head to meet her eyes. A silent question. _Is this okay?_

She wrapped her arms around his neck, one of her hands around the base of his skull. Her eyes locked on him, “I need you.”

His hand slid below the hemline, past the elastic of her underwear. She shivered again as his fingers met the soft curls that lay below. He kept his gaze on her, looking for any sign that he should stop. She gave none. He continued downwards. Fuck, she was unbelievably wet; his gloves were slick with her. Slowly, so slowly, he slid a finger inside. So warm, god, she was so warm. Warm and wet for him and he realized absently that she would be his very undoing. Her hips jolted upwards against his hand, a soft cry escaping her lips. She clutched the collar of his jacket like an anchor. He slid a second finger inside, the heel of his thumb against her center. Her gaze still trained on him, those perfect red lips hanging open and _Jesus fucking Christ_ he wished that he could live in this moment for the rest of eternity _._

“Skulduggery, fuck, I want you.” 

“You’ve got me.”

”I mean, _I want you_.”

“I’m not sure if I can-” 

“I know. It’s okay,” a soft kiss against the bone of his brow, “let’s find out together.”

He withdrew his hand so that he could sit as she brought hers to the collar of his shirt. She sat cross legged before him and pulled open the first button, then the second, continuing down to expose the bleached bone of his ribs. 

She whispered, pressing her lips against his sternum, “you’re beautiful.”

He helped her to undo the final buttons, and she softly tugged the jacket from his shoulders, sliding it from his arms. The shirt and gloves followed. Discarded on the bed beside them, it held its shape, his shape, for a moment before deflating. Valkyrie looked at him, her eyes traveling across his scarred ribs, the spine visible below, and he had a powerful urge to cover himself.

She had seen him in various states of undress before. It felt a bit ridiculous to suddenly be self-conscious. But, he knew, this was nothing like any of the previous experiences. Dressing for battle besides one’s comrades was an entirely separate form of intimacy, one that he was far more familiar with; more comfortable with. 

She drank him in, her eyes drawing the story from each of the marks littering his body. Studying every detail in the galaxy of scars, gouges, nicks; a narrative written in negative space. The whole of his existence laid bare before her. That traitorous part of him wanted to reach for his shirt — to shield himself — masking his sins with starched cloth and allowing her see no deeper than the armor he presented to the world. But he didn’t. Wouldn’t. He sat, static, a half-finished statue of a broken man. In a world of demons, he realized, the abject horror of being known was easily the most formidable. 

At least he could punch demons.

Valkyrie’s eyes didn’t leave him as she reached down to begin unbuttoning her own top. He stopped her, his skeletal fingers overlapping hers, and a flicker of anxiety passed over her features. 

“I want to-“ he began, guiding her hands to her lap, “I’d like to be the one to undress you, if that’s alright.”

The worried curve melted from her brow and she shifted towards him for easier access. He reached towards her, and began unfastening her top. Each button was a landmark; each centimeter of skin revealed, a wonder. The valley between her breasts, the toned plane of her stomach. He took his time, pausing every so often to admire her. The flicker of candle light danced across her skin, soft and beautiful. He had never been much of an artist, affinity for music notwithstanding, but he was overtaken by a profound longing to paint her like this. He wanted desperately to commit this moment to memory. To make it permanent; tangible. 

The shirt now open, draped loosely around her shoulders, he looked at her as though he were seeing the sun set for the first time. Carefully, he slipped the shirt down her arms, abandoning it on the bed beside his own. 

He laid her down atop the pillows and descended, planting a skeleton’s approximation of a kiss against the silken skin of her chest. A second placed gently on her stomach. Shifting further backwards, towards the foot of the bed, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of her trousers and she lifted her hips so that he could slide them from her body. They snagged on her feet, and she had to kick her legs a fraction to aid their removal, giggling as she did so. 

The trousers were discarded with the rest. She lay there, naked save for the triangle of black cotton across her hips and, god, she was the most exquisite being on the face of the earth. Her wide eyes followed him as he leaned back, kneeling above her. He brought his hands to his clavicle, each one tapping the twin sigils carved meticulously into the bone. 

The façade flowed outwards, covering him in that false flesh and bringing with it a capacity for physical awareness that he was still not wholly accustomed to. China’s additions to the sigil had gotten increasingly intricate, each upgrade providing new aspects of humanity that he had long been without. He could feel the heat from the vent above them, rolling across his body, playing with the hair that was not quite his. He wondered, idly, what face he wore today. Valkyrie had not instantly recoiled, so he figured that it couldn’t be _too_ abhorrent. That was a positive sign.

He closed the eyes, his eyes, for a moment, recalibrating himself to cope with the onslaught of sensation. When he opened them, she was gazing at him, her expression indiscernible. 

She propped herself up on her elbows below him, “I like this one.”

“Hm,” he replied, “what does it look like?”

Valkyrie was quiet for a moment, her eyes scanning his bare chest, the chest of a living man, to the mop of hair that he could feel brushing his ears. 

“It looks like you,” she said finally, sitting up so that she could grasp his hands — living hands— where they rested beside her hips. She pulled him forward until he was hovering above her, and kissed him. 

Every kiss with her had been so completely different from the previous, and this followed the established pattern. He could feel her lips against his, so warm and so soft and god he was dizzy, how could he be dizzy? And she was reaching up to tangle her hands in his hair, pulling him closer still and the heat of her skin against his and fucking Christ he was going to die, again, right here and right now in the arms of the woman he loved and god, what a perfect way to die and — 

_Fuck._

Loved. Love. Love, love, love. That word. Oh god, that word. He hadn’t said it aloud, but he had thought it, and now it was playing through his mind on a loop and — 

_LoveloveloveloveloveloveloveloveIloveyouGodValkyrieIloveyou_ — 

Did he love her? Did he love Valkyrie? It felt so natural, so right, to apply it to her. So completely honest and visceral and _real_ and it was as if every second of his existence had been leading up to this moment and Christ almighty he was in love with Valkyrie Cain. He had to actively stifle the words so that they didn’t spill from his mouth, torrential, cataclysmic, and God he loved her and — 

One hand still laced through his hair, she brought the other to rest on his back, her fingers dancing across the divots of his spine like a boat over waves, weaving a path down, down, down, making her way to his very human abdomen and reaching for the still-fastened button of his trousers and — 

Her voice was soft, slightly raspy, as she spoke against his lips, “you’re still half dressed. That’s not fair.” 

He had to collect himself, to script what he would say before he allowed it to fall carelessly from his tongue. The word, _that_ word _,_ was still throwing itself around the confines of his skull, braced to spring from him if he were to let his guard down. Love. _I love you_ . Lovelovelove. _Stop_. No. Not now. Not yet. 

Love sat in his throat like a bullet in the chamber of a gun. 

He flicked the safety on.

“I suppose we should level the playing field,” he rumbled, voice deep in his chest. The words were tight. Too planned, too clipped. He wondered if she had noticed.

Valkyrie, with an ease that would have caught him off guard had she been anyone else, pushed him off of her, flipping their position so that she was on top, straddling his hips. She grinned down at him, the candle casting dynamic shadows over her perfect features. 

Jesus Christ. 

She crawled backwards, dipping her head low to press a line of kisses down the thin trail of dark hair that led past the hem of his pants. He could feel, god, he could feel himself straining against the fabric, a sensation that was not new, but somehow devastatingly unfamiliar, and he began to regret the past 300 years he had spent forgoing undergarments. He hadn’t found them necessary as a skeleton, but he wasn’t a skeleton right now. It wasn’t as though he could have planned for this, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t lament. _Why_ he found this particular concept worthy of lamentation he wasn’t sure. He just did. 

A mischievous smile playing on her mouth, her eyes on his, she slowly, too slowly — no, not slowly enough — no, definitely too slowly, unfastened the button and pulled the fabric down over his hips, from his legs, and off completely. He felt the air, cold against him, and then her hot breath and _fuck_ — 

She was taking him into her mouth, her tongue dragging a tortuous circle around the tip of him, and his mind was blank, empty, god, he couldn’t remember his own name. There was nothing, just her, just Valkyrie. His eyes had fallen closed. Ragged breaths that he didn’t need tearing themselves from incorporeal lungs. A maelstrom of words pouring through him, _Valkyrie, fuck, oh my God, Valkryie,_ _mo ghrá_ _, Jesus Christ Valkyrie please don’t stop_ and he wasn’t sure how much of it was said aloud and he wasn’t sure that he cared and she was doing something with her mouth that he couldn’t comprehend and _good God_ he had to get ahold of himself, wasn’t he supposed to be the one making _her_ lose control? 

Skulduggery forced himself to open his eyes, to look at her, and when she met his gaze he thought he might burst into flame. 

His voice was a growl as it passed his lips, “Valkyrie, I need you.” Thoughts drudged like lava through his mind, thick and slow, and he couldn’t figure out how to articulate what he wanted more specifically than that. He wanted, more than anything, to return this favor. He wanted to lay her down on the bed before him and use this new tongue of his to make her fall apart. 

When she withdrew him from her mouth, she didn’t climb off of him. Instead, she kissed that same trail in reverse, up his abdomen, across his chest, his neck, landing on his lips as he stared at her in wide-eyed awe. She pulled back slightly, lifting herself upright and straddling him and _fuck_ he could feel how unbelievably wet she was through that thin black cotton, the only clothing left between them and Jesus _Christ_ — 

“Valkyrie,” he choked, “I want to… for you.” 

“Later. I’m not going anywhere,” she said breathlessly, “I just- I can’t wait any longer.”

Valkyrie was kneeling, pulling off that final barrier, her thumbs hooked in the elastic as they slid over her hips and all he could do was watch. She was naked, now, retaking her position above him. Clasping his hands in hers and bringing them rest on her hips, she lowered herself slowly, reaching down to guide him inside and _Jesus fucking Christ Holy fuck_ she was sinking onto him, so tight and wet and warm and when she started moving, a quiet rhythm above him, he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out and _fuck_ —

She leaned down to kiss him, soft gasps against his mouth as he lifted his hips to match the cadence she composed. His fingers dug into her thighs like she was all that tethered him to this mortal coil and her name was drumming against the inside of his skull like heavy rain and those words — _I love you, god I love you Valkyrie_ — were thunder in his bones and — 

Her movements were increasingly fevered, her breath heavy and ragged against his neck, against his lips, and she was saying his name, god, the sounds she made when he thrust deep into her, those little gasps and moans and cries, her voice was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard and — 

She was tightening around him, the roll of her hips almost jagged, her eyes were locked on his, and he brought his hand down between them to find her, to trace delicate circles over her clit. Her eyes screwed shut, a cry spilling from her perfect lips, and god, he was on the edge of _something_ , a coil tightly wound inside of him, and — 

Fuck, he could feel her, falling, her muscles spasming around him and Jesus Christ he was falling with her. He heard his own voice, hoarse and rasping, “ _I love you, god Valkyrie, I love you_ .” White light exploding behind his eye sockets, clutching her tighter, her hands cupping his face, waves crashing through him, “ _Valkyrie, god I love you so much I love you I love you_.” — 

He didn’t remember closing his eyes. As the storm settled within him, the tendrils of fog that spidered through his mind began to retract. His chest heaved breaths of air with no destination. Moments later — maybe minutes, or hours, he didn’t know — he opened his eyes. 

Her face was still centimeters from his, that dark gaze of hers on him. She was breathing heavily, the corner of her mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. 

Oh god. 

He had said it, hadn’t he? That word. _The_ word. He couldn’t read her expression, and he had no way of knowing what mixture of emotions he wore on this perfidious face. He considered turning off the façade. He didn’t, though. He wasn’t quite sure if he could move yet.

She was still staring. A tiny smile growing into an undeniable grin. Oh, she was going to mock him. She _should_ mock him. He had committed a reprehensible sin. He had allowed himself to completely lose control. What was _wrong_ with him? A fucking orgasm, regardless of the preceding multi-century dry spell, was absolutely not an excuse. He was such an idiot. God damn moron. Allowing himself to think with his cock. A cock that wasn’t even his! God, she should hit him. No, he deserved worse than that. She should separate his bones piece by piece until he was a heap of useless calcium, and then stomp on it. Idiot. Pathetic, lovesick idiot. 

Valkyrie opened her mouth a fraction, and then immediately closed it. She was probably trying to find the right set of words to verbally flog him, to properly describe what a fool he was. She brought her hand to his face, and he prepared for the slap that would inevitably follow. 

“Valkyrie, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to- I wasn’t thinking. I-” he blurted. His face burned. God, was he blushing? Fucking _blushing_?

But she wasn’t hitting him. Instead, her palm was resting gently against the false flesh that covered his cheekbone, “I love you, too.” 

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her as she rolled off, settling beside him. Her arm draped over his chest. She sighed, her breath ruffling the hair around his ear. An odd sensation, though not at all unpleasant. Her forefinger traced a tiny heart on the skin that overlaid his chest. Directly above where his heart once was. Her reply turned over and over in his mind, looping like a broken record, but he still couldn’t quite process it.

“So, uh, did you finish?” she asked, the nonchalance in her voice only a bit forced. 

“Well, not in the… classic sense. But there was definitely… a ‘crescendo’ as it were.” 

“Okay, so: you came, but we’re not running the risk of accidentally creating a tiny human. Is that an apt translation?”

“... Excruciatingly so.”

“And this isn’t gonna be one of those Twilight situations, is it? Like, I know this is the first time we’ve boned-” she paused to snicker at her own pun, “but I’m not going to get pregnant with a magical skeleton baby or something, yeah?”

“No, Valkyrie, you won’t.” 

“Good,” she said, satisfied, and laid her head on his chest.

The conversation lulled, and comfortable silence filled the gaps. He realized that he hadn’t blinked in several minutes. Though the act was unnecessary, he thought that Valkyrie might find it a bit disconcerting if he didn’t start again. He blinked. It felt unnatural; too forced. He tried again. No, still not right. Again, and again, each attempt still not quite hitting the mark. But, he kept at it. It had become a matter of pride, at this point. He was _going_ to get it right. He blinked furiously, over and over — too hard, too soft, too slowly, too quickly. Damn it.

Just when he thought that he was close to figuring it out, Valkyrie let loose a fit of hysterical laughter, interrupting his work. He hadn’t realized that she was watching him. Her body shook with it, the sheer force sending shockwaves into him where they touched. She kept laughing, eyes squeezed shut, a hand over her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle the sound. Several times, she took a steadying breath in an attempt to get herself under control, but the moment she looked at him again she was overtaken by a fresh bout of cackling. 

Minutes elapsed, and she finally seemed to have calmed enough to speak. 

“What on earth are you _doing_?” she managed, the words punctuated with giggles. 

“I… I was trying to remember how to blink,” he replied. 

She met his eyes, her face blank. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Valkyrie’s body was once again wracked with violent laughter.

“Oh, come on,” he muttered, “it’s not _that_ funny.”

She took another moment to get herself under control again, “It really is _‘that funny’_. God, Skulduggery, you should have seen your face,” she paused, “it’s a nice face, though. Very handsome. Strong cheekbones.” The addendum might have worked, perhaps, if she hadn’t still been stifling giggles. 

“Blinking isn’t usually a habit of mine, if you’ve noticed. Forgive me if I’m a tad out of practice,” he grumbled.

She lifted a hand to his face, her thumb tracing his bottom lip, “neither is smiling, I’d wager. Yet, you’re wearing the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.” 

“You’re not going to win me back with compliments, my dear. It’s too late. The damage is done,” Skulduggery said. He forced an exaggerated frown for effect, which elicited another bout of laughter from Valkyrie. God, she had a wonderful laugh.

“Oh, if that’s the case, I suppose I’ll be leaving then,” she lilted, moving to disentangle herself. 

He wrapped his arms around her waist, and she fell back against him dramatically.

“I certainly didn’t say that,” he murmured.

“Hm. Are you sure I haven’t damaged your ego beyond repair?”

“I may be able to recover. The face you’ve insulted isn’t actually mine, after all. And my ego is unbelievably sturdy.”

“It’s still weird seeing you with a face. Or a body, for that matter. I have to admit, China really has outdone herself,” she said, her fingers brushing gently over his chest, “I still prefer the real you, though.”

She brought her hand to his collarbones and tapped the sigils gently. “That’s better,” she hummed as the façade melted around him, revealing the bone beneath. The ‘real him’, as she had described it. He liked that. 

Her arm remained against his ribcage. Her fingers sketched tiny circles across his sternum, “you know, I think you left your hat in the car.” 

“Ah,” he replied, "I was a bit… distracted.”

“Were you now? What could _possibly_ have been so distracting?” 

“You see,” he murmured, a skeletal thumb stroking her bottom lip, “I was thinking about the suit I left at the dry cleaner last week.”

“You’re such a fucking goon.” 

“Your suitcase is still in the boot, too.”

“Yeah. I was _also_ distracted.” 

“Hm, of course, were you thinking about the dry cleaner too?” 

“No, I was thinking about fucking you, actually.” 

“Your candor is terribly refreshing.”

On the bedside, the candle was flickering its last, the wick nearly burnt through. It danced — lazily — oblivious to its fate. Or, perhaps it didn’t mind. The first rays of morning light crept through the window to bathe the room in a faint silver glow. They had been up all night, he realized. He didn’t need to sleep, of course, but Valkyrie did. She blinked heavily, a futile attempt to stave off the inevitable. 

“You should sleep,” he whispered, pressing a kiss against her forehead.

“I’m not tired,” she lied, sleepily. 

“It’s okay. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

She seemed to realize that she was fighting a losing battle, and gave in to the exhaustion. Her head settled into the crook of his neck, eyes falling closed. 

“I love you, Skulduggery,” she mumbled.

He brushed an errant strand of hair from her face, “I love you, Valkyrie.”

For once, his mind was quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skulduggery is a sub. i dont make the rules i just enforce 'em.


End file.
